


baby, come light me up

by astroturfwars



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Barebacking, M/M, Smut and Sentiment, Somewhat Irresponsible Decision-Making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 17:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9082966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astroturfwars/pseuds/astroturfwars
Summary: “Let’s go,” Yuuri tells him, and leans down to press his lips to the corner of Victor’s mouth. He lingers there for a moment, deliberate, before he straightens up again. “I think it’ll be fun.”He traces the line of Victor’s jaw. Victor tips his head back easily, obligingly, and gives Yuuri a pout that should not be nearly as endearing as it is. “Your idea of fun does not seem fun,” he says. “I think I’d rather stay in. Wouldn’t you?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some preliminary notes:  
> 1\. I have no idea when the banquet is in relation to the GPF events themselves, so roll with me here.  
> 2\. For convenience/practicality, the banquet is in the hotel where the skaters are staying.  
> 3\. Warning: This is my first completed fic since 2013 and thus is rusty as hell. 
> 
> For best results, read while listening to Into You by Ariana Grande. Title is also, unsurprisingly, from Into You by Ariana Grande.

“Beautiful.”

Yuuri pauses. He pulls the towel off his wet head and pats at the bed nearest to the bathroom. It’s neatly made; he finds his glasses easily against the white sheets. “What is?”

When the room comes into focus, Victor is leaning against the windowsill, looking at him. Hours ago—a lifetime ago—Victor had been sitting there in a loose bathrobe, wet-haired and wet-eyed, knuckles white on the sill’s edge. Now he’s clear-eyed and smiling, dressed in an immaculately tailored steel-grey suit, and nodding toward the window. 

“The sunset,” Victor says, but he’s looking at Yuuri still.  

It's been months—years, really, if Yuuri thinks about it—and Victor still surprises Yuuri somehow, some way, every single day. Today was no exception. First there were tears, and then there were more tears, and then there was his return announcement, and now this, which has somehow made it onto that list with all of those other stunning contenders: the fact that Victor Nikiforov, who is, by all accounts, drop-dead gorgeous, is looking at Yuuri in his damp bathrobe and his messy hair and his misty glasses and calling him—or at least trying, in that odd way of his—beautiful.  

Heat sparks in Yuuri’s belly and sweeps through him, up into chest and neck and cheeks. With his free hand he clutches the lapels of his bathrobe, gives himself something to do with his hands. One shoulder slips down to pool around his bicep. Even across the room Yuuri can see the flicker in Victor’s expression, the deliberacy with which he keeps his eyes on Yuuri’s. Yuuri thinks back. Eight months ago Victor had done something just like this—green yukata slipping off of one shoulder, bare nape, sleepy eyes. Turnabout is fair play, Yuuri decides, and allows himself a private smile.

“It is beautiful,” he agrees, and edges around the beds to unzip his suitcase. “I wish there was more time to enjoy it.”

Yuuri isn’t looking, but he can still feel Victor’s gaze on his back. It’s familiar, heavy and warm, and it makes Yuuri feel like he’s still performing even though he’s long since taken off his skates.

“I’m sure there will be time to enjoy it later.”

Yuuri picks out the pair of slim-fitting black briefs he’d packed specifically for this occasion and straightens up. The other shoulder of his bathrobe slips down too as he does. “The sun will be down later,” he points out. Victor’s eyes go soft. “We’ll have to wait until tomorrow night to see another one.”

Even in wingtip shoes, Victor hardly makes a noise when he moves away from the windowsill and into Yuuri’s space. He stops just a few feet away. On skates it would take Yuuri half a second to close the gap between them; on bare feet it would take three steps. It feels like more. It feels like less. Yuuri tilts his head up to meet Victor’s eyes.

“I can think of something else to admire while I wait,” Victor murmurs.

A shiver sweeps through Yuuri from fingers to toes. He’s clothed—half-clothed anyway, bare as he is from neck to mid-chest—but he may as well be naked under Victor’s gaze. He can hide nothing. Just as well: there’s nothing he wants to hide, anyway.

With a smile, Yuuri sidesteps Victor and moves for the bathroom. Over his shoulder, he says, “You think. I’ll go change.”

Victor’s smile goes wry. He presses slim fingers to his chest and drops his head back. “What a terrible tease you are, Yuuri,” he says, mournful.

His voice is heavy with something like want. Yuuri thrills all over. Victor Nikiforov’s attention is a heady drug; even after eight months spent within arm’s reach of Victor at almost all times, Yuuri still isn’t used to it. His heart flutters as he shuts the bathroom door behind himself. 

In the bathroom, everything is quiet. Yuuri lets the flirty confidence drop along with his bathrobe. There is no performance here, no coyness to maintain; there is only Katsuki Yuuri, twenty-four, Hasetsu’s darling and current holder of the men’s Grand Prix Final free skate world record. His medal is laid out carefully on the end table between the two beds, but Yuuri can still feel it against his skin, cool and heavy, right over his heart. His pulse flutters; his thoughts go giddy and aimless. Yuuri thinks it one more time, deliberate.

He’d broken a world record.

He touches his face. Cups his hands over his burning cheeks. Lets that sink in. For a moment Yuuri feels like he’s full of sparklers, of fireworks, of birds; for a moment, Yuuri feels like he’s on top of the world.

He’d done it. He hadn’t won the gold he’d wanted—that, and other things, would have to wait—but he’d broken a world record, and he’d landed a quad flip, and he was good enough, damnit; he was enough.

His ring gleams at him. He hasn’t taken it off since he got it, not even to shower; something about the prospect of an empty finger, unweighted by luck or promise, makes Yuuri a little jittery, like he might be missing something if it weren’t there. He wonders if that’s a little too dramatic; chides himself for it, just briefly; wonders if Victor feels the same, if the band around his finger seems a little more solid every time he touches it. Yuuri’s does: it feels like a tiny anchor, like a promise spoken to body and melded to his skin.

Definitely overdramatic. He’s been spending too much time with Victor.

Yuuri laughs at himself as he steps into his briefs. He’s wearing the same suit he’d worn to last year’s banquet, minus the champagne stains and wrinkles, but it fits differently now, Yuuri thinks. Maybe it’s because this year he doesn’t feel like he’d rather be lying under his hotel room bed than socializing, or maybe it’s because he isn’t planning on washing away his nerves and his sadness in a flood of champagne, but either way he feels…good. Confident. A little handsome, even, when he pulls his suit jacket on and straightens his shoulders to fill it out. It’s a nice change.

Victor is perched on the edge of his bed flicking aimlessly at his phone when Yuuri steps out of the bathroom to look for banquet-appropriate socks. He looks up. Smiles. “You look perfect.”

Ridiculous. Yuuri’s cheeks go hot. “I don’t even have my socks on yet,” he points out. Victor’s still looking at him, but he ignores it, searching for the nice black socks he’d stuffed into the same pocket as his winter socks and his three pairs of greying Asics.

Yuuri sits on the edge of his bed. In his periphery, Victor turns toward him. Yuuri doesn’t need to look to know Victor’s expression; he can practically hear it when Victor says, “That doesn’t matter.”

“Most people would disagree.”

“I certainly wouldn’t,” Victor says, eyes on the arch of Yuuri’s bare left foot. If Victor is going to call him a tease regardless, he may as well earn it: Yuuri points his foot as gracefully as he knows how as he pulls his sock on. Victor makes a noise that sounds awfully close to a whine. “Yuuri…” 

“Victor,” Yuuri replies evenly, and steps into his shoe. Repeats the process again, this time with his leg extended so the hem of his pants flirts around his ankle.

“You’re cruel,” Victor tells him. He lays a delicate hand to his forehead and sighs. “Who could have guessed that such a sweet face could hide such meanness?”

Fondness swells in Yuuri’s chest like a crescendo. “You probably should, after eight months of living with me,” he says, and hops up to retrieve his phone from where it’s charging on the end table. The clock tells him they’re about to miss the opening of the banquet. It’s only downstairs in the hotel’s ballroom, but the idea of being late makes Yuuri nervous nonetheless. “Oh, we should get going. I don’t want to be late.”

“It’s called ‘fashionably late,’” Victor says. He catches at the sleeve of Yuuri’s jacket. His eyes are lovely and warm with something that makes heat curl, responsive, in Yuuri’s belly. “And it’s still in style. We could try it out, you know.”

Part of Yuuri wants to tell Victor that they can’t; they have a million obligations between the two of them, and besides, it’s awkward to be late when you’re on the arm of a living legend and are guaranteed at least thirty percent of the attention in any given room. Another part of Yuuri wants to climb into Victor’s lap and miss the whole banquet, obligations be damned. Still another, though, remembers Victor’s too-sweet smile at the edge of the rink earlier, remembers the way he’d bent Yuuri backwards over the wall, asking for something else to kiss, for something to excite him, and feels delightfully vindictive.

“Let’s go,” Yuuri tells him, and leans down to press his lips to the corner of Victor’s mouth. He lingers there for a moment, deliberate, before he straightens up again. “I think it’ll be fun.”

He traces the line of Victor’s jaw. Victor tips his head back easily, obligingly, and gives Yuuri a pout that should not be nearly as endearing as it is. “Your idea of fun does not seem fun,” he says. “I think I’d rather stay in. Wouldn’t you?”

Victor fits his hands to the backs of Yuuri’s thighs, stroking softly. Slow, traitorous heat gathers between Yuuri’s legs.

 _It’ll be worth it_ , he tells himself, and tugs at Victor’s tie. Victor maps the curves of Yuuri’s backside as he stands, already looking entirely too self-satisfied.

Yuuri gives Victor his sweetest hometown smile. Soft-eyed, Victor leans in. His eyes are closed. Stifling a laugh, Yuuri steps neatly out of Victor’s grasp and heads for the door. “Come on, Victor,” he calls back without looking. Adrenaline thrills through him; his heart is pounding with the thrill of something like chase. “Everyone will be waiting for you.” 

Silence. Then, as Yuuri opens the door, Victor huffs. “Cruel,” he repeats, but his voice holds no venom, and his hand is warm on Yuuri’s shoulder as they head out.

 

—

 

The banquet is beautiful.

Yuuri suspects it’s mostly because he’s a little starry-eyed and still hyped up over his medal— _his medal_ —, but it’s not nearly as awkward as it was last year. It’s easy to smile with a world record under his collar; easier still with Victor’s hand warming the small of his back as they make their second long, sweeping round of the room. Sponsors, coaches, minor celebrities, other skaters—Yuuri is beginning to lose track of how many hands he’s shaken, let alone how many names he’s pretended to recognize. Pleasantries have worn his voice thin, and each new person he meets saps a little more of his energy; but Victor is glittering beside him, a clever and comely shield, and Yuuri lets himself lean into Victor’s shoulder, lets his nerves be soothed by the faint feeling of Victor pressing fleeting kisses to his head. 

A little before ten, when casual conversation lulls and people begin clustering into groups of friends, Phichit commandeers their attention for a selfie. It’s a good one; Phichit looks radiant as always in black, and Victor is—well, Victor. He’d look beautiful under any conditions, but he’s especially so in this picture, his color high and his lips curved in a wide and lovely smile. Yuuri is pink-faced and half wincing, squished between Victor and Phichit. He’ll see it on Instagram later, he’s sure. He might even like it if Victor pouts at him enough.

“Ooh, this is a good one. I’m surprised I could get you alone for a picture, though. I’ve never seen you be so social, Yuuri,” Phichit says. He’s clearly impressed. Yuuri frowns.

“Don’t say it like that…but I know what you mean. My face hurts. I’m not used to smiling so much.”

“Oh, believe me, I know. I like it, though!” Phichit grins. “It’s a good look!”

“I agree,” Victor says. His fingers curl against Yuuri’s side. He’s smiling, soft and sweet. “It suits you.”

Yuuri turns to him. His own smile is instinctive, reactive. How could anyone look at Victor Nikiforov making that kind of face and not smile back? “You think so?”

“Of course.”

In his periphery, Phichit makes a joking face and waves. “That’s my cue,” he says, and throws them both a wink. “I’m going to go find Chris. I’ll see you two later!” 

“Oh—bye, Phichit!” Yuuri calls after him, half-waving. Phichit tosses them a jaunty little salute before slipping off into the crowd. Chris had looked a little weary around the eyes when Yuuri had last seen him, though he’d been smiling beautifully. With any luck Phichit would be able to get Chris’s smile to ring a little truer. “I wonder what Chris is up to.”

Victor smiles. It’s entirely too innocent. “Hopefully nothing so exciting as last year.”

“Ha, ha.” Yuuri levels Victor with the flattest look he can manage. “You’re very funny, Victor.” 

Victor laughs. Traces the line of Yuuri’s jaw with his forefinger. Tips Yuuri’s chin up. “Don’t look like that,” he says, and calls Yuuri something in Russian that he doesn’t translate. Yuuri isn’t sure if it’s an endearment or a tease, and he frowns accordingly. “Smile.”

Yuuri reaches for the confidence tucked away in his chest. Remembers the way Victor looks at him like he could do no wrong, either on the ice or off. He says: “Make me.”

Victor raises a slim eyebrow and taps his chin. “How would you propose I do that? Because I can think of something myself…”

His mouth is pursed but lovely. Yuuri wants to kiss him so badly it feels less like a want and more like a need, like an imperative, like some instinct tugging at his marionette bones. It would be so easy to rock up on his toes or tug Victor down by his tie and kiss him until they were both dizzy from more than just alcohol. The thought alone makes Yuuri go warm from head to toe.

Still. Yuuri bites his lip. Flicks a glance up at Victor through his eyelashes, still heavy with his last performance’s mascara. “I thought you didn’t want to kiss.” 

“I said I didn’t feel like kissing your medal,” Victor murmurs. He smells like champagne and spiced cologne and something sweet; maybe one of the little pastry treats that have been floating around with the waiters. Yuuri wants badly to know what his mouth tastes like. “That doesn’t mean I don’t feel like kissing other things.”

His voice is deep. Husky. Yuuri leans into Victor’s side, humming. “Oh, really? What else would you feel like kissing?”

Victor tilts his head down. They’re close enough in height that he can bend easily enough to talk right into Yuuri’s ear, all warm breath and the suggestion of soft lips, so close Yuuri aches to bare his neck for Victor’s mouth. “A few things.”

Yuuri hums again. Victor pulls him closer. “This is inappropriate, isn’t it,” Yuuri says, but he doesn’t feel it—he’s buzzing with the same untouchable confidence he feels when he’s dolled up in his Eros costume, fueled as always by Victor. Victor’s gaze is kerosene: a single spark—one touch, one brush, _anything_ —could send them both up in flames, and Yuuri would gladly let himself be consumed.

“My, my.” Victor gives Yuuri a scandalized look. “To think Yuuri Katsuki, the star of last year’s banquet, is giving me a lecture on what’s inappropriate…”

Yuuri’s cheeks go hot. He’d seen enough pictures to know roughly what had happened at last year’s banquet, and heard enough about it from Victor to know he’d liked it. By that logic, anything Yuuri did this time around would be tame by measure, wouldn’t it?

That’s what Yuuri tells himself as he pushes himself up on his toes and nips at Victor’s earlobe.

He’s blushing before his heels hit the ground. For a moment, Victor is frozen, staring blankly in the general direction of the hors d’oeuvres; then he turns, catches Yuuri tight against him, and says, “I will kiss you anywhere you like as long as we leave right now.”

That rough note in his voice, the tightness of his grip, the way he very carefully measures out the distance between them— _there it is._ Yuuri grins.

“Including my medal?” 

“ _Anywhere_ ,” Victor repeats.

The bulge below Victor’s belt ruins the clean line of his slacks. It would be a shame if only it didn’t make Yuuri go quite so hot.

As sweetly as he can, Yuuri says, “I accept,” and lets Victor lead him from the banquet hall.

 

—

 

They’re on each other the moment the elevator doors close.

They go for each other at the same time, but Yuuri and his low center of gravity have the advantage: he takes an elbow to the bicep, but pushes Victor back into the wall of the elevator, slots himself between Victor’s legs, and presses up for a kiss. That kiss is less of a kiss than it is a sloppy press of lips and teeth beneath, but it soothes something in Yuuri that’s been pointedly wanting for the last few hours, and Yuuri leans into it, eager.

Victor’s hands settle on Yuuri’s sides, pulling him flush. Like this Yuuri can feel the hard planes of Victor’s stomach, the jut of his hipbones; like this he can tell just how hard Victor is when his cock presses against Yuuri’s belly. He’s _very_ hard, Yuuri registers with a shiver—breathtakingly so, in the kind of way that makes Yuuri antsy with the desire to take Victor into his mouth and feel him heavy on his tongue.

Yuuri works a hand between them and cups Victor firmly, feels the length of him, and finds himself wanting badly. Victor gives up a surprised little groan and slides his hands up to cup Yuuri’s face. His hands are talented, capable, big. When he touches Yuuri’s face like this it reminds Yuuri of the other things he can do with those hands, and Yuuri arches against him, giving himself up to teeth and tongue and the feeling of Victor rocking against him in a slow grind that makes his head spin and his skin tingle with pleasure. 

Overhead, the elevator dings. Yuuri is harder than he’s been in weeks, and he wants Victor so badly it almost hurts; half-mischievous and half-desperate, Yuuri pulls away to head for their room. He’s giddy, dizzy with desire and delight. Laughter bubbles up out of his throat as he speedwalks down the hallway, sparing only a single glance for Victor, who is mussed and flushed and grinning as he gives chase.

Victor’s legs are longer, but Yuuri’s stride is quicker, and he smacks into the door first with Victor’s fingers grasping at his coattails. He fumbles his wallet out of his pocket as Victor crowds him against the door, hips pressed against the curve of Yuuri’s ass, fingers insistent on Yuuri’s waist, murmuring, “So slow, Yuuri, you would think you have nowhere to be—“

Yuuri turns his head to press a sloppy kiss to Victor’s jaw. “You aren’t helping,” he tells Victor, and finally yanks his key card from his wallet. He jams it in unceremoniously, and they spill into the room together, caught up in a tangle of legs and eager hands and the sound of Victor’s laugh.

Victor kicks the door shut behind him, and Yuuri grabs Victor’s tie and walks backward until the backs of his knees hit the edge of a bed. He falls backward, and Victor stops where he stands between Yuuri’s legs, soft-eyed, and says Yuuri’s name like it’s the only word he knows.

“Get down here,” Yuuri tells him, beckoning.

Victor kneels.

“Oh,” Yuuri says, sitting up, and says it again when Victor slides his fingers into the short hair at the back of Yuuri’s head and pulls him in for a kiss.

Expensive lip balm keeps Victor’s mouth soft even in the depths of winter, and Yuuri can taste it when he opens his mouth for Victor: faint vanilla over top of champagne. Victor presses his tongue into Yuuri’s mouth, brushes it against Yuuri’s own, makes a sweet noise when Yuuri does the same. Kissing Victor is unlike anything Yuuri has ever known: it’s breathtaking, all-consuming, and it makes Yuuri’s pulse pound between his legs. He catches Victor’s bottom lip in his mouth, sucks on the plush curve of it, bites down to earn himself a whining moan. 

“Cruel,” Victor murmurs, fitting his hands to Yuuri’s waist. He frowns against Yuuri’s mouth, though, and tugs at his jacket. “Too much of this, I think,” he adds.

He isn’t wrong. Anticipation makes Yuuri clumsy: he fights his way out of his suit jacket, loses his glasses to the knot of his tie, fumbles open the buttons of his shirt with shaky fingers. Already Victor’s clothes are a mess on the floor; Yuuri makes a face at him, grumbles, _how?_ , and gets a laugh in return.

“It’s my specialty,” Victor tells him. At last count, at least thirteen different menial things had been Victor’s specialty. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated.”

The buckle of Yuuri’s belt is entirely too smooth. He’s never had this problem before, but of course he would be now, when he’s embarrassingly hard and Victor, gorgeous and statuesque, is pressing wet kisses against his neck and shoulder. Caught between the urge to lie back and let Victor kiss him and the fear of breaking a nail, Yuuri is useless; Victor laughs, bats Yuuri’s hands away, and manages to divest Yuuri of his belt in an astounding few seconds. 

What’s more astounding, though, is how efficiently Victor works Yuuri’s fly down to palm him through his briefs. Yuuri leans back on his elbows to give Victor room to work, pressing into his touch; Victor, long and lean, follows, pressing kisses to Yuuri’s chest and throat as high up as he can reach. Everywhere he touches seems to go electric; Yuuri pants for it, for Victor, toes curling as Victor drags his thumb in firm circles below the head of Yuuri’s cock. It’s good, so good, but Yuuri can’t touch Victor like this, and he wants to touch Victor like he wants to breathe, like he wants to skate: less of a want and more of an imperative. Yuuri tells Victor this the only way he knows how: in gasps and moans and whispers of Victor’s name, the last of these repeated as Victor tugs Yuuri’s slacks down and throws them halfway across the room. 

Their eyes meet. Victor inclines his head. Yuuri nods. Obedient, Victor clambers off the bed to kneel beside his suitcase. He rifles through it, tossing aside clothes until he finds what he’s looking for: a bottle of lube.

…and nothing else. A sinking feeling touches the back of Yuuri’s neck. “Do you have, uh…”

Victor frowns at the bottle. “Hm,” he says. “I don’t think I do. It seemed…forward.”

“You brought— _that_ , but not…”

Victor shrugs. “We only use them sometimes, anyway.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Yuuri says, closing his eyes. He knows better—how could he not, with how many late nights he spent researching?—but love is a heady thing, and his pulse is throbbing between his legs, and what did it matter when they were each other’s firsts, anyway? He gives himself up to instinct and poor logic. “Okay,” he says, beckoning, “but next time—“ 

“I’ll remember,” Victor promises, and shimmies out of his slacks and briefs before climbing back onto the bed.

Yuuri lets his legs fall to either side. It’s lewd, wanton, and he knows it; Victor does too, judging by the look he gives Yuuri as he settles between them. He rocks up to kiss Yuuri once, and then settles back on his heels. The plastic cap crackles. Yuuri props himself up on his elbows to watch Victor drizzle lube onto his fingers. He uses too much, as always, and it drips onto the sheets, but he either doesn’t notice—likely—or doesn’t care—also very likely—because he simply smiles, bright and sweet, and reaches between Yuuri’s legs. 

The pressure is familiar. Yuuri relaxes into it, and into the push that follows. Victor presses one finger into him, watching Yuuri’s face carefully, and adds another when Yuuri nods.

“Eager today, aren’t we,” Victor murmurs. His other hand holds Yuuri’s thigh. His fingers are long and beautiful, and Yuuri wonders idly if Victor would let him suck on them—and then Victor curls his fingers inside Yuuri and brushes up against something that makes Yuuri gasp.

Victor blinks like he hasn’t made Yuuri do that tens of times before. “Wow.”

“Oh, my god,” Yuuri mutters, and covers his eyes. Victor curls his fingers again. Yuuri’s hips twitch. How could someone so talented be so awful? “Victor, please—“ and then Victor does it again, and Yuuri moans again, pressing his knees against Victor’s sides, buzzing with pleasure. Victor works at him until Yuuri is tingling all over, feeling pliant and warm, and then he leans over Yuuri and steals a kiss and says, “What was it that you were saying?” 

His tone is playful, challenging, but he goes easy when Yuuri pushes him backward. Victor arranges himself comfortably among the pillows and lets Yuuri straddle him, lets Yuuri look at him. He is every inch a wet dream, and he bites his lip like he belongs in one when Yuuri takes his cock in hand, lines him up, and sits back.

Yuuri’s breath hitches. His chest is tight. It’s been a while now, but he still might never get used to the feeling of Victor sliding into him, slow and steady; he might never get used to the fullness he feels when he sits on Victor’s cock, finally, a little shaky with the stretch, a little dizzy from holding his breath. It burns—it always does—but Victor is careful not to move: he strokes Yuuri’s side with one hand and Yuuri’s cock with the other, rubbing his thumb through the bead of precome gathered at the tip. Slowly the burn melts into something sweeter. Yuuri rolls his hips experimentally. The slide and the friction are delicious and heady; Yuuri bites back a moan.

Victor’s eyes are sharp; his gaze is open and wanting. He hides his impatience well, but Yuuri knows him deeply, intimately. He knows what it means when Victor bites the inside of his cheek like that: it means he _wants_ , badly, and Yuuri thrills with it.

“I’m okay,” Yuuri says. It’s routine, but necessary: Victor would hold still forever if he had to.

“Good,” Victor says, smiling. He caresses Yuuri’s sides, passing the fingers of his right hand over Yuuri’s heart. He touches Yuuri’s ribs, sides, hips; dips his thumbs into the crease between Yuuri’s hip and thigh; records the curve of Yuuri’s thighs with his fingertips; brings his hands up and lets them fall against the bed on either side of his head, palms skyward.

Victor is beautiful like this, all silver and ivory laid out against the white sheets of the bed, hair falling every which way, a sweet and lusty angel. He is also, Yuuri thinks, becoming very spoiled.

“Really?” Yuuri asks, raising an eyebrow. He shifts his hips. Victor’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t move. 

“Really,” Victor’s smile is borderline lascivious. A shiver flits down Yuuri’s spine; his cock twitches. “I want to watch you.”

By now Yuuri is no stranger to Victor’s gaze. He knows the weight of it, the sharpness, the ways it can make him feel. Beautiful—erotic, exotic, a dark flower opening only under the eyes of a dazzling moon—and exposed, bare as the day he’d been born, vulnerable in his softest places, his most tender parts. When he performs—for himself, for the audience, for Victor—he is both of those things in equal measure, and he feels it keenly. But here there is no audience, no judgment, no flash of lights or roar of sound or mantle of expectations and dreams wound heavy as a noose round his neck: there is only Yuuri, and Victor, and the skin and the lust and the love between them. 

The words roll off his tongue, easy as breathing. “Don’t take your eyes off me.” 

“Never,” Victor says, like a promise, and watches as Yuuri begins to ride him.

Yuuri’s thighs are sore from earlier, achy from that culmination of months of practice and performance, but he finds a rhythm that makes him shudder and settles into it: a slow one-and-two rise-and-fall that has Victor breathing hard every time Yuuri sinks back down on his cock. Yuuri leans back, bracing himself on Victor’s thighs. Here he has control; here he can watch Victor’s eyelashes flutter, can see Victor digging his teeth into his bottom lip, can allow himself a smirk when he arches into a hip roll that drags a low, filthy curse from Victor’s mouth. Victor’s hands are fists—are curled into the bedsheets, leaving pulls and wrinkles—are fists again, working aimlessly, the veins in his arms shifting as he moves. He reaches for Yuuri, and Yuuri, grinning, pitches forward to catch Victor’s wrists and pin them to the bed. 

“You wanted to watch,” Yuuri reminds him. Their faces are inches apart; Victor’s eyes are wide. Confidence and control chase each other through Yuuri’s blood. He angles his hips to pull himself off of Victor’s cock nearly to the point of withdrawal. “So,” he says, “watch,” and sinks back down, slow, until he’s flush with Victor’s hips, so full it knocks the breath out of him for a moment.

“Yuuri,” Victor groans, arching into Yuuri, rocking his hips upward. “That’s not fair.”

Yuuri dips his head to mouth at Victor’s neck. There’s a swathe of skin just below Victor’s sharp jaw that Yuuri knows is particularly sensitive, and he works at it now, lips and teeth, laving at it with his tongue. Victor jolts and gasps and moans for him, pliant and wanting. His breath is warm on Yuuri’s skin; Yuuri shudders, rocks again, leans into the drag of his cock against Victor’s belly and the friction making heat gather under his skin. “Yuuri,” Victor says, nearly begs, “let me touch you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri pushes himself up enough to get a look at Victor’s face. Color rides high and full on Victor’s cheeks, turning him sweetly pink; sweat glistens at his temples, makes his hair stick to his forehead. He is beautiful, and Yuuri loves him, and wants to tease him, just a little.

“You said wanted to watch, didn’t you?” Yuuri gets his legs a little more squarely underneath himself. His thighs are starting to burn, but that slow pace isn’t enough for him anymore: he bounces once, twice, finds a quick little rhythm that makes him go so hot the rest of the room seems cool. “What happened?”

Victor swears. There’s a smile pulling at Yuuri’s lips; he can feel it, and he lets it spread, curves it in that coy way he knows drives Victor mad. It works, and Victor rocks up into Yuuri hard. Heat pulses under Yuuri’s skin; pleasure streaks through him sweet and keen. He gasps, and Victor does it again, and again, and Yuuri flips his grip to pull Victor’s hands to his hips, teasing be _damned_. They linger there for a moment, but Victor has his habits, and he reaches around to cup Yuuri’s ass and squeeze.

A groan tears itself from Yuuri’s throat. Victor pulls Yuuri down on his own upstroke and if Yuuri’s eyes were open he might have seen stars because he thrills from head to toe and _oh_ , God, Victor, do that again—

“Happily, darling,” Victor says, and fucks into him in earnest. Yuuri finds Victor’s rhythm and follows his lead, rocking down to meet his hips, half-whispering half-moaning Victor’s name among little pleas he can’t stop himself from making, like _please_ and _again_ and _more, Victor, more_ , until Victor is squeezing his eyes shut and telling Yuuri he’s close. Yuuri braces himself with one arm and reaches down with the other to touch himself, stroking quick and hard, breath coming short, his body ringing electric with pleasure.

“Victor,” Yuuri manages, bending to kiss Victor sloppy and wet, murmuring against the corner of his mouth, “I’m close—“

“Come for me,” Victor tells him.

Yuuri does. He lights up from the inside out, trembling, the world narrowed to a single bright burst of sharp sweet feeling, and comes _hard_.

In the aftermath he’s shaky, thighs and hands and chest, and every time Victor moves his hips Yuuri tingles with the kind of pleasure that borders on pain. He loves that feeling, though, and chases it, pushing through the pain in his thighs as he rides out the last of his orgasm.

“Yuuri,” Victor groans, his voice hoarse and desperate. With one hand he cups the back of Yuuri’s neck and draws him down for a kiss of the bruising kind, all tongue and slick lips, and with the other he smacks at Yuuri’s thigh until Yuuri realizes what he wants and comes up off of him. Victor reaches between them, but Yuuri feels his way down Victor’s stomach and beats him to it: he takes Victor’s cock in his hand—breathless for a moment at the weight of it, the heat of it, at just how fucking hard he is—and strokes him hard and fast, thumbing at the head the way Victor likes it, and Victor tenses up and bites down on Yuuri’s bottom lip and then, with a muffled curse, comes.

Yuuri strokes him through it. He’s kind, halving his pace to a slow up-and-down, littering Victor’s throat with kisses until Victor gives up a full-body tremble and touches his wrist.

“Too much,” Victor mumbles. He pulls Yuuri’s wrist up to his mouth to kiss it. Yuuri cups his face, strokes the curve of one flushed cheek. Victor smiles at him, wide and dopey and full of affection. Yuuri’s heart flutters. “You are incredible, as always.”

It had been incredible. Yuuri can’t argue with that. Instead he buries his face in the curve of Victor’s neck. Victor wraps his arms around Yuuri and pulls him close. They slide against each other, too-slick and a little sticky, and Yuuri makes a face against Victor’s shoulder. “Oh, ew—Victor, that’s gross.”

Victor laughs and hugs Yuuri tighter. “Sex is a beautiful thing, Yuuri. You should appreciate this.”

That, Yuuri decides, is disgusting, and Victor is at least partly disgusting for suggesting it. His bottom lip twinges when he grimaces. “Ow,” he says, pulling back to rub at it.

“Oh, look at that.” Victor peers at Yuuri’s mouth. “It’s so red.”

Yuuri sticks his bottom lip out. “That’s your fault. You bit me.”

“Did I?” 

“Victor.”

“I kid, I kid.” Their foreheads touch. “Let me kiss it better,” Victor says, his smile as bright and vital as the sun, and Yuuri laughs, and lets him.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me being generally inconsolable about Katsuki Yuuri, YOI, and many other things on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/yuurivevo) and [Tumblr](https://valorandsimplicity.tumblr.com).


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